


Two (and a Half) Weeks in the Life

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [22]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-28
Updated: 2007-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Figure out the military."  Jim laughs softly.  "Good luck with that, son."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two (and a Half) Weeks in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as ever, to Dogeared for irreplaceable beta duties.

Morning comes slow at the farm; six-thirty and the first blush of dawn's barely pinking the sky. John stands quiet just below the pasture, last year's prairie grass prickling at his knees, frost like cracked glass beneath his feet and a coffee mug warm in his hand. He stares east, thoughts drifting aimlessly. Everything's still save for Burp chasing critters by the fence, and the world stretches calm in every direction. If he reaches out his hands he swears he might touch contentment, Iowa breathing soft and slow around him, each exhale of wind touched by ice.

The screen door creaks. There's a pause, then – " _What_ are you doing?"

"Go back to bed, Rodney," John smiles, glancing over his shoulder.

Rodney shuffles out onto the porch, hair on end, sweatshirt tangled to show a glimpse of the t-shirt he's wearing beneath. "Like that's a possibility after you threw back the covers and let in a draft. Not to mention brewing coffee to torture me."

John sips from his mug, still smiling. "Just wanted to look around," he explains. Burp woofs softly as he chases some new quarry out through the corn stubble.

"Well, okay, you've checked, everything's still where you left it, so how about you come inside?"

"Miss me?" John teases.

"Yes, yes, that's it, I underwent a personality transplant and began to pine after fifteen minutes."

John whistles low for Burp, who bounds through the yard to come to heel, panting delightedly and smelling of earth. "Crazy pup," John mumbles as he ambles back toward the house.

"And look at you – what's got _into_ you? It's freezing out here and you're wearing that reprehensible jacket when – "

" _Mo-om_ ," John whines.

"You can mock, but if you catch pneumonia, I'm the one who'll have to take time off from work to berate the nurses and bribe them for the good drugs, not to mention forgo sleep while I make sure you're actually breathing in and out the way you're supposed to, and you have a son upstairs who's very partial to living parents whom he can bribe into slipping him soda, so you should really mmmph . . . "

John's always found kissing to be a particularly good way to shut Rodney up, and this morning's no exception. "Hi," he says when he finally pulls away.

Rodney blinks, dazed, licking his lips. "Um, hi?" he answers, and lets John pull him back inside.

*****

It's two days since Rodney called Colorado and gave them the news, but John's not surprised to find the U.S. military still runs on the principle of hurry up and wait. He's weathered this before – the bustle of deployment; the stultifying flight to a corner of the world where he's told he'll see action; the days spent waiting for orders, running routine tasks. Rodney's less sanguine about killing time – he paces his study, sends a dozen emails by the quarter-hour, mutters epithets about gift horses and geniuses and mouths.

"Isn't it killing you?" he asks after breakfast that morning, one arm half threaded into a t-shirt proclaiming 'Vader was framed.' "To know it's out there and to be . . . " He gestures indignantly.

John shrugs. "Not really." He sits on the bed to lace up his boots.

"Not really?" Rodney gasps as he struggles with the concept of left arm, left shirt-sleeve. (When his brain is processing something that runs against the data, his lower functions tend to come undone.) "Not _really_?"

"Been in the military," John says, switching to the other foot. "Know how it works."

Rodney flails his way clad and stomps over to pick his jeans up from where he'd slung them the night before. "You are nature's gift to this project!" he snaps. "What is there for them to discuss?"

John raises an eyebrow and deigns not to answer, since all the myriad moments he's spent butting heads with the chain of command are old news to the man huffing his way clothed in front of him. Rehashing them's more effort than it's worth.

Rodney turns around with his jeans newly fastened. "I hate all of them."

"Nah," John observes, hitching a shoulder. "You still have that thing for Cartier."

" _Carter_."

John smiles pleasantly. "Carter. Right."

Rodney grinds his teeth and looks like he's going to chew on John's head. "Don't you want to go!?"

John looks at his newly laced boots for a moment, then wets his lips before he looks up. "Is here so bad?"

Rodney's face falls in a nanosecond and he sits down beside him, stricken. "No – no no no, that's not what I meant, you must know that's not what I meant." He squeezes the back of John's neck.

John leans back into the touch. "Just checking."

"I love it here, you know that, we've had that talk. That fight. We decided we like to not talk about it. That we've talked about it, I mean."

John hitches a shoulder. "You just seem anxious to be gone."

"I'm anxious to watch you touch _really big things_ entirely made up of Ancient tech because I have to believe Ferris wheels are going to come in a poor second once you've felt that kind of rush and you don't – you haven't . . ." He lets his hand drop and lifts his chin – Rodney 101 for 'I'm about to say something difficult.' "There haven't been enough Ferris wheels," he says deliberately.

John quirks an eyebrow, unexpectedly touched by the idea that Rodney's keeping track of his lifetime's portion of joy. He shifts a little, setting the thought aside as something to think about when he's alone and it's dark and he can't betray himself with questions or a goofy look. "Like you're doing all this for me."

"I like Ferris wheels too!" Rodney splutters.

The left corner of John's mouth curves up and he leans in, head-butts Rodney's temple gently. "It'll happen."

Rodney hmmphs. "You're not a cat," he observes disdainfully, but his hand's at the back of John's neck again.

"Wanna make me purr?" John grins.

"Ohh," Rodney groans, pained. "The cheap gag, right there, and you had to – "

"Wanna?" John persists.

"YOU'S VER' NOISY!" Finn yells from his bedroom.

Rodney sighs. "Later," he says. "The devil's own minion is awake."

*****

In the end it's John who tackles the worst of the minion's morning grumpiness, Rodney filling his travel mug with the rest of the coffee and slinking away to his lab with – John feels – an appropriate level of shame. John sets more coffee brewing and squares his shoulders. "Peanut butter?" he asks.

"No!" Finn replies, smashing his truck into the baseboard of the kitchen cabinets.

"Cheerios?"

"No!"

"Scrambled eggs?"

"No!"

"So what _would_ you like for breakfast?" John asks, censoring 'you godawful pain in my ass' from the end of the sentence.

"Brownies!" Finn yells.

"No," John replies.

The battle of 'no' rages through face-washing, teeth-brushing, and picking out clothes. It encompasses shoe choices, snacks for daycare, and the appropriateness of being strapped into a car seat (the latter fight accompanied by Finn's flailing limbs). The responsibility for saying 'no' passes between father and son with rhythmic regularity, so that Laura opens the door to the pair just as John's saying 'no' to Finn's request to paint his room purple when they get home.

"Hey Finn," Laura says, dropping down into a crouch. "You wanna go pick out a book for us to read?"

"Okay!" Finn says, grinning, hugs Laura and runs into the living room where the books are kept. John narrowly avoids banging his head against the wall.

From Laura's it's a short drive to the Brenneman farm and a half-day of caulking and basement work to deal with drafts and leaks that have shown up with the thaw. "These'll need replacing," John says, pulling splinters of wood from the rotting sill inside the laundry room.

"Something always does," Jim says from the stool he's perched on. "Pretty sure you can handle that."

"Not today," John says, prodding at the seams and figuring out a temporary fix. "Might need Brad to order windows made whole – probably better than just pulling out the sill."

Jim nods, hands folded on top of his cane. "Sounds fair. It's not as if it can't wait a week or two."

John scratches the back of his neck. "I might be out of town for a while."

"Oh?"

John turns and leans against the edge of the washing machine. "Job. Well – sorta. Colorado."

Jim chews this over, frowning a little. "You're thinking of moving?"

"No," John shakes his head. "No – don't think that's in the works." He hitches his shoulder, tucks his hands under his armpits. "It's just a job. That I'm pretty qualified for, and – I don't know that much about it." He smiles, sheepish. "I'm figuring they'd pay me something. Nest egg. Stick it away for the stuff I never see coming."

Jim nods thoughtfully. "What kind of work?"

"Can't exactly say."

"Don't know or aren't allowed?"

John huffs wryly. "The second."

"Military then."

"Kinda." John rolls his shoulders against the tension he can feel there, the itch of a system that gave him wings and made him crazy all at once.

"Didn't think you'd go back to that."

"I'd stay civilian."

"Many civilians involved?"

"Some."

Jim hmms. "Must be something pretty special to have you squirming like a worm on a fishhook."

John half-smiles. "Maybe." He pushes off from the washing machine, looks back at the window and reaches for the caulk. "I'm going so I can figure it out."

"Figure out the military." Jim laughs softly. "Good luck with that, son."

John grins. "Gotta have ambitions."

"Mine's for clean shorts, so hurry your self up, before the laundry takes over the house."

"Yes, sir."

Jim huffs a breath of laughter, and gestures as if toward the words John just said. "The military hasn't left you yet."

John eases caulk into the gaps between the sill and the wall and wonders how true that is.

*****

There's only so much John can do for the Brennemans' basement in the short-term, so it's not long after lunch when he swings by Laura's to pick Finn up. Finn's much more tractable than he was that morning and lets John swing him from one arm as they make their way back to the car. "I read books today," Finn says, squealing as John swings him high.

"Oh yeah? 'Bout what?"

"Um. Gin' pigs an' trains an' sparkle dancers an' veg'bles an' a boy called um – Uckfy."

John thinks for a second. "Huck Finn?"

"No, Baffa – _I's_ Finn. Uckfy."

John grins and swings him again before opening the car door. "What else did you do?"

"Painted an' made cookies an' weighed flour an' rice an' beans. Beans are heavy."

"I suppose it depends on how many beans you're weighing," John observes. "Up and in, 'jumper." He lets him squirm into his seat before fastening all the buckles.

"Seat stops me hitting my head."

"Yep." John swipes Finn's hair back from his brow. "We want your head all in one piece."

"One piece, one piece, one piece, one piece," Finn sing-songs as John rounds the car and gets into the drivers side. "You have buckles?"

John slides his seat-belt on. "Yep. Gotta look after my head too."

"Daddy have buckles?"

"Daddy has buckles." John starts the car and pulls out onto the county road. "Daddy's head's full of important things, it'd be bad if he squished 'em all up."

"Nooo squish." Finn kicks his legs. "Uckfy hadda friend call Jim." Segues are not yet part of the younger McKay's repertoire.

John rolls with it. "And what did Jim and Huck get up to?"

"They hadda raft and they sailed."

"Sounds pretty fun."

"Was fun."

John grins. "We could make you a raft this summer if you liked."

"Onna river?"

"Mmmhmm. Probably not the same river Huck and Jim were on – the Mississippi's pretty big. Too big for us."

"But Uckfy was onny a little boy."

"Yeah but Jim was older."

"You older."

John recognizes the early warning signs of being hoisted on his own petard. "Yeah but, see – Huck and Jim lived a long time ago and the river wasn't so busy then. There are too many boats now for us to sail like they did."

"On the Missypissy?"

"On the Mississippi, yeah."

A pause. "So where we sail?"

"The river by our house."

"Wassit name?"

"Cedar River."

"See d'river?"

John glances in the rear-view mirror. "Cedar. It's a tree."

"Tree river."

John laughs. "Sort of, yeah. Cedar's . . . know the big tree by the side of the house, by the garden?"

"Yep."

"That's a cedar tree."

Finn frowned, chewing on his lip. "S'a tree, notta river. Rivers is wet."

"You got me there, buddy," John says, surrendering. "You want to listen to music?"

"Misser Cash!"

"You are one smart 'jumper," John agrees, sliding a CD into the player.

By the time they make it home, Finn's beginning to yawn, and the fact that he stumbles into the house and over to the chick-box in the kitchen without major injury is, to John's mind, some kind of miracle. John joins him, letting Burp out to run free in the yard for a while. "We should give them new food," he says, "change their water."

"I gets water," Finn says, dragging a kitchen chair over to the sink. "Gimme dish."

"Gimme dish, what?"

"Gimme dish, _please_."

John obliges, and empties the old feed out into the trash-can before scooping up more from the tub Maggie Brenneman gave him. Finn fills the dish to overflowing and manages to spill a pretty fair amount on his route from chair to floor to box, but John sets it in place without further mishap. "They're pretty cute huh?" he asks, lifting Finn up to sit on his hip.

Finn yawns and leans his head on John's shoulder. "Pretty cute." He stretches out a finger to touch one chick. "Warm 'nough?"

John tilts the thermometer so he can check. "88 degrees, right on the nose."

"S'at warm?"

"Very warm. Like summer."

"Mmmm." Finn rubs his cheek against John's jacket. "I likes summer."

"I know you do, buddy," John smiles, walking them to the foot of the stairs. "Long nights and fireflies, huh?"

"Ball."

"Lots of games with balls."

"And foods on sticks."

John laughs. "County fair made an impression, huh?" Stairs climbed, he pushes Finn's bedroom door open with his toe.

"This year, canna go up in th' plane?" Finn asks as John sets him down on the bed.

John unfastens the laces on his shoes. "We'll talk about it," he says. "Me and your Daddy."

"I'd like to go up inna plane."

"Someday," John nods. "Under the covers or over?"

"Unna." Finn scrambles gracelessly underneath, limbs clumsy with fatigue. "Little sleeps now."

"Yeah, just a little sleep, buddy," John smiles, bending to kiss his forehead. "And then we'll play some, how's that?"

Finn yawns again. "I like that," he says softly, closing his eyes, and flinging one hand above his head. John tucks Elephant against Finn's side and creeps out the room, the morning's battle of wills almost forgotten.

*****

John's sitting at the kitchen table paying bills when Rodney gets home. "You're back early," he says, glancing up.

Rodney sinks back against the closed kitchen door, arms overflowing with file folders and dog-eared journals, a laptop case over each shoulder. "I'm dying," he says, voice hoarse.

John quirks an eyebrow. "Dying, huh."

Rodney sniffs. "Cold. Stupid, stupid cold – it's all Neela's fault, I told her not to come to work with her – " he waves a hand. "Germs. And now my nose is full of nuclear-green snot and my head aches and my joints are doing very peculiar things and my throat's sore and it's the fastest moving infectious disease since – " His eyes grow wide. "It's probably the flu. It's probably some strain from 1918 set loose and I'm – " He drops his files and feels the pulse at his neck.

John eyes him placidly, sets down his pen and crosses the room to rest a hand against his forehead. "You're pretty warm," he agrees, privately musing that if Rodney has it in him to keep up this kind of monologue, things can't be too serious. "How about you go sprawl on the couch and I'll find some Tylenol."

"Tylenol?" Rodney says weakly. "I should probably be isolated. You should probably call the health department – I'm probably – "

John stares him down. "Couch," he urges, pushing Rodney in the right direction and unhooking the laptops from his shoulders as he passes.

"Need – "

"Couch," John says firmly.

"Okay." Rodney shuffles off.

John bends to scoop up the scattered papers, files, and photocopies Rodney let drift all over the kitchen floor – articles to peer review; essays already marked up with 'STUPID STUPID STUPID' in the margins; budget review sheets from the department; a thick sheaf of papers from a lawyer in town that –

John stops dead, reading. "Rodney?"

"Hi, I'm _dying_ here?" Rodney protests from the couch.

His legs don't feel entirely steady, but John stands and heads into the living room, still skimming over the pages he holds in his hand. "I – you – "

"Did you find the Tylenol? I know we bought more, it's probably on the top shelf, next to the paper towels and the book on thinking your way to better wheat consumption from Jeannie. Although I suppose I might have taken them upstairs." He blows his nose loudly. "Okay, now I need a new shirt because – wow that's so green."

John halts at the foot of the couch. "Adoption?" he asks, gesturing feebly with the papers in his hand.

"Oh." Rodney looks up as though caught with his hand in the cookie-jar, instead of examining the snot he's wiped onto his shirt. "Well, I – "

John sits down heavily on the arm of the couch. "Adoption."

"Congratulations on being able to read. Yes, adoption, what about it?"

"You don't just – draw these things up overnight."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Well no, of course not, I had them start work on it a while ago, I was going to surprise you and – well, I suppose it's still a surprise. Surprise?"

John wets his lips. "You want me to adopt him?"

Rodney blinks. "Don't _you_ want to adopt him?"

"I never – I didn't – "

"He's your son, too! It's not as if my claims to superior sperm motility really add up to much when compared to three and a half years of parenting."

John tries to steady his breathing. "I just never thought – " He blinks. "I just thought I was lucky, you know? Not – "

Rodney sits up, sighing. "You're his dad. You're already his dad. This is just – " He waves a hand. "So much legal stupidness. But it means no one can take him away from you if – "

John pales. "Hey."

"What?

"We're not talking about that."

"Well too bad, because my will's in there, too."

John flexes his fingers in and out of a fist. "Jackass."

"Yes, yes, it's monstrous the way I insist on arranging my affairs to demonstrate you're my next of kin."

"So we – "

"You sign the papers and I take them back to the lawyers, they work their expensive magic and all and sundry will officially understand that you're as much his parent as I am."

John clenches his jaw and stares at the document. "Thank you," he says at last.

"Oh _please_. I think the shoe's on the other foot, although if you don't find the Tylenol and _soon_ , my head's going to explode and then we'll have real problems."

John half-smiles. "I'd demonstrate my thanks, but you have snot on your face."

"Fair-weather kisser."

"Damn straight." John reaches out and knuckles the top of Rodney's head. "I'm gonna find you Tylenol, sign these, then freak out, okay?"

Rodney slumps back against the couch cushions. "Wonderful. Splendid. As long as it's in that order." He grumbles low at the back of his throat. "Dying."

"Tragic," John smiles, and keeps the papers tight in his hand as he walks away.

Finn wakes up flushed and contented, thrilled to find his Daddy already home, even if he is lying on the couch, moaning pitifully. After examining a paper towel on which Rodney's been blowing his nose ("S'green!" "I know, bright green." "Canna touch it?" "Baffa will probably say no." "Aww Baffaaaaa . . . ") he settles in on the rug with oversized Legos and proceeds to build something that doesn't resemble anything at all. "Daddy?"

Rodney squints at him. "Hmmm?"

"Canna ask a question?"

John smiles from the armchair where he's scribbling more checks, bills balanced on a picture book in his lap. This is Rodney's dream come true – a stage of development he's been eagerly anticipating, ready to impart all his knowledge about why the sky is blue and how rainbows are made and why it rains and how come Congress is full of incompetent morons.

Rodney looks interested, a little more alert. "Sure."

Finn carefully joins together two big green bricks before speaking. "When the ladies dance, how they stay onna toes?"

Rodney blinks.

John tries hard not to laugh out loud.

"The ladies dance?" Rodney asks.

"The sparkle ladies with the – " Finn sets down his bricks and stands up, arching his arms above his head. "Like this. Only onna toes." John bites the inside of his cheek hard as Finn begins to twirl.

Rodney turns a fascinating shade of pink. "Well, I – " He looks over at John, who pretends to be absorbed in battling the running total of their checking account. "Sparkle ladies?" he says weakly.

"Daaaaddy," Finn says impatiently. "They's inna book. At Laura's. They does the dancing onna toes and there's a big mouse."

"I think – "John offers magnanimously, "Laura has a book about the Nutcracker."

Rodney slumps against his pillows and closes his eyes. "Nutcracker."

"Sparkle ladies!"

"Yes, yes, sparkle ladies," Rodney says weakly. "Well – I believe the ballet dancers – that's their proper name – have wooden blocks in the tips of their shoes that let them balance on their toes."

"Only the ladies."

"Yes, only the ladies, because society doesn't hate men quite so much."

John snorts. "Rodney."

"Don't you want to know about how plants make food?" Rodney asks Finn, almost pleading. "What snowflakes are made of?"

Finn sits down again and picks up his blocks. "No thank you."

"Where stars live?"

"Inna sky," Finn answers. "Duh."

John wonders if he can actually cause himself to bleed internally through the power of repressed laughter.

Rodney blows his nose. "My whole career, reduced to 'in the sky, duh.'"

John nudges Finn with one toe. "What does Daddy do for a living, buddy?"

"Be smart," Finn says.

John nods at Rodney and mouths 'see?'

Rodney hmmphs, only marginally placated, but Finn scrambles to his feet and brings him a large green, blue and yellow brick creation. "What's this?" Rodney asks.

"You," Finn beams. "Now I make Baffa."

Rodney laughs weakly. "Oh god," he mumbles, and sets the blocks on his chest before closing his eyes.

*****

Early Saturday morning, John answers the door to a military courier so neatly turned out, fresh-scrubbed and young that John almost wants to reach out and poke him, check that he's real.

"Dr. Rodney McKay? Major John Sheppard?"

"Sheppard," John nods, holding the screen door open with his hip.

"Delivery, sir."

John briefly wonders what to do with his coffee, and thrusts it at the lieutenant, exchanging it for the large envelope and pen he's being given. He scribbles his name, glances at the vehicle in his driveway, wonders if the guy drove all the way from Scott AFB, and takes his coffee back when he gives back the pen. "Thanks."

"Sir." The lieutenant – BEDFORD, his name tag reads – nods smartly and turns on his heel, John closing the door at his back with something a little too close to relief for his liking.

"Rodney. Package."

"Dying!"

John rolls his eyes and pads into the living room. "You are not still dying."

Rodney peers over the back of the sofa. "I'm terribly ill, probably still contagious, shouldn't go out or – "

"You're going to Laura's party tonight."

Rodney grouches and slumps down out of sight again. "Her house will be full of _English majors_."

"Yep."

"People who specialize in the – " his hands appear above the sofa back, making air quotes " – liberal arts."

"There'll be beer. And Brad and Mitch'll be there." He throws the delivery on Rodney's chest. "And this arrived."

Rodney sits up, staring at the envelope. "Oh my god, this is – oh my god – we're going to, we're really going to – I – I need to – "

John leans over the sofa and rests his chin on Rodney's head. "How about you open it and then have the panic attack?"

"Oh, okay, yes, yes, good plan," Rodney mumbles and tears the package open.

It's not that he's not invested, but the details aren't his thing, so John wanders back to the kitchen, musing that blue and white-striped pajama pants and a sweatshirt that reads 'Hitching the Hard Way' wouldn't have been his first choice of things to wear to greet the military at his door. That said, he's not sure why he cares, so he eats a piece of cold pizza, checks the spring training news in the paper, and pads upstairs to rouse Finn before he oversleeps to the point of a tantrum. Rodney's still examining various sheets of paper when they come downstairs, plane tickets, itineraries and glossy brochures scattered around his feet.

"We're going next Sunday," he says, looking up.

John nods. "Sunday. Okay." He looks down at Finn, who's blinking sleepily at the world. "Wanna take a trip to see mountains, 'jumper?"

Finn chews on his lip. "Affa breakfast," he decides.

*****

John always enjoys Laura's parties. It restores his faith in the coolness of humanity to meet so many people who have trouble fitting the pieces of his life together – military, farm, carpentry, gay – and it's always fun to watch how people get squiggly-eyed and drink a little faster after they're first introduced. This crowd's no exception, save for the people he's met before, and the new guy – Ronon, a poet in the workshop at the U who's eight feet high and sporting the best case of dreadlocks John's ever seen.

"That take a long time?" John asks, nursing his second beer and peering at Ronon's hair. "To grow, I mean."

Ronon shrugs. "Some."

"Ever hide stuff in there?"

"Knives sometimes."

"Cool," John says.

Rodney saunters over, looking pinched but amiable – he's trying hard, despite having spent ten minutes trapped by Irene Whittaker, who bent his ear on her masters' thesis about Kirk, Spock and their deep, abiding love. "Hi," he says to Ronon. "Rodney McKay."

Ronon shakes his hand. "Ronon Dex."

Rodney winces a little as his hand is released, but doesn't immediately launch into complaints about crushed bones and lasting nerve damage. "You uh – a friend of Laura's?"

"Poetry workshop."

"Huh." Rodney marshals an expression of interest. "Poetry. There a living in that?"

"Some."

"Right, right. And uh – what do you write about exactly? Flowers? Trees?"

"My last book was 'The Turgid Chaos of Masculinity.'" Ronon sips at his beer. "Reflections on the tension between the masculine self and the feminine within. The impotence of society's damp release. That sort of thing."

Rodney blinks and John hurriedly takes a mouthful of beer to stop himself laughing. "Well," Rodney says. "Turgid."

"You can buy it on Amazon."

"I'll uh – " Rodney shakes his head and finally bursts forth with trademark bluntness. "Where are you _from_?"

Ronon blinks. "Iowa."

"Yes, yes, I know that's where we are right now, but I mean originally."

Ronon just looks at him. "Iowa."

"Really?"

"Norwalk."

"Which is . . . where?"

"Near Des Moines."

"You're from _Des Moines_?"

John gathers himself and shoots Ronon and apologetic look. "Rodney." He claps a hand on his shoulder.

Rodney turns to him. "Des Moines? Really? He's like, ten feet high."

"And right here," Ronon offers.

John can't know for sure, but he's pretty sure Ronon's amused. "Be nice to the man who could squish you like a bug, buddy."

"Did your mother put growth hormones in your food?" Rodney asks Ronon, then suddenly looks like he's had a revelation, briskly snapping his fingers. "Were you weaned directly from breast milk onto corn?"

Ronon snorts with laughter at last. "He's funny," he says to John.

"Oh yeah, a riot," John drawls. "Write a poem about him."

"Can I call him obsequious?"

"Sure, if you want to give him an aneurysm. And if you can find a rhyme."

Ronon grins and drinks from his beer. "Come on, you need to meet some people," he says, taking Rodney by the shoulder and steering him forcefully toward the front room.

"John?" Rodney says, glancing over his shoulder in panic.

"Have fun!" John waves. "Don't stay out too late, and remember what your mom said about kissing strange boys."

"I hate you!"

"Yeah, yeah." John turns around and looks for the cooler. "I'm gonna need another beer."

*****

"Y'know," Rodney says once they're home, diction a little sloppy as he struggles with his shirt, "Ronon's very inneresting."

"Yeah? You make a new friend?" John laughs, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on a chair.

"I think I might!" Rodney says, beaming. "I think I might've made a very, very tall new friend."

"How much beer did you have, exactly?" John asks, kicking off his jeans and leaving them where they fall.

"Some." Rodney finally masters the art of disrobing – at least the upper half of his body – and scratches at his chest while he thinks. "I had . . . some."

"Some." John hides a smile. "Good to know." He throws his socks and underwear in the general direction of the rest of his clothes, throws back the covers, and flops on his stomach. "Mmmmph, bed."

From behind him there's the sound of a belt buckle clinking, and someone fumbling with their trousers. "Brad and Laura seem happy."

John hmmmms. "They do. S'nice."

"Think Mitch is lonely?"

John laughs softly into his pillow. "Mitch?"

"Yeah."

"No." He snorts. "He's living the dream. Different girl every weekend."

"That's the dream?"

"That's his dream."

The bed creaks as Rodney whumphs down beside him and crawls up to press along his side. "S'not my dream."

"Well I'm glad to hear it," John mumbles, eyes closed, rubbing his cheek against the pillow.

Rodney kisses the top of his spine. "Hey." He breaks off and pauses. "You have freckles."

"Mmmm?"

"On your shoulders. It's early for you to have freckles."

John sighs comfortably. "Maybe it was from this afternoon. In the yard."

"Hmmm." Rodney kisses spots John can only assume he's picking because they're freckly. "Fan of freckles."

"I didn't know that."

"I have secrets."

John snorts. "Sure you do."

Rodney slides a hand down his spine and kisses a shoulder blade. "I have all kinds of secrets."

"Like what?"

Another kiss, lower. "If I told you they wouldn't be secrets anymore."

John shivers pleasantly. "Damn."

Rodney nudges at his spine, kissing each vertebrae in turn. "Too smart for you."

"Maybe." John shifts beneath Rodney's mouth, warm curls of heat coiling low in his belly.

"I like your back."

"That a secret too?"

"No, I'll tell anyone that," Rodney says cheerfully and licks his way low, following the curve of John's spine down to the rise of his ass. "Mmmm."

"Rodney – "

"Hmmm."

"Wanna let me turn over?"

"Not yet." Rodney presses sloppy, wet kisses where the line that marked last summer's shirtless tan has almost faded to nothing.

John breathes through his mouth and struggles to stay still. "Trying to kill me?"

"Hmmm," Rodney laughs. "No. Not quite yet."

"Good, 'cause I didn't have time to do the will thing and – "

Rodney grazes his teeth over John's ass, nipping right where it meets his thigh.

"Jesus," John gasps, a sharp flare of heat spreading through his groin. "Okay, let me over – "

"No."

"Rodney!"

"Like this."

John laughs. "You drunken bastard."

"Buzzed, not drunken." Rodney sounds smug.

"I wanna _touch_ you."

Rodney kisses the spot he's nipped red and sensitive. "Nope."

But John hasn't lived with Rodney all this time without learning something about the art of playing dirty, and he reaches with one hand to tickle Rodney's side, laughing when Rodney flails and yelps. The whole thing degenerates into a fumbling, messy, affectionate bout of hapless wrestling, kisses and touches traded for laughter and cursing. By the time Rodney has John on his back they're both flushed and sweating, grinning madly, and as Rodney grinds down against John's hips, they let out matching broken moans that make them laugh again.

"Oh god, we're lame," John wheezes.

"Shut up, I have a hard on, let me use it," Rodney begs.

John snorts but obligingly rocks his hips upward, their bodies tangling in a long, slow, dirty slide. "See," he gasps. "That's good."

Rodney thrusts down. "Shut up, shut up, don't jinx it you bastard."

John's rapidly losing the ability to be verbal so he doesn't think there's much chance of that, and he hooks one leg around the back of Rodney's thighs, dragging him closer. To give them an extra fighting chance of seeing this through to orgasm he raises his head and kisses Rodney hard, fingers tangling in his hair, tongue sliding alongside Rodney's own and curling to steal all the words he has. They rock against one another, breathing coming faster, bursts of pleasure sparking across their skin and racing through their bones until – " _Rodney_ . . ." John's coming, slick and sweet, Rodney still moving against him as he wets both their bellies, shivering hard.

"Oh," Rodney manages, "oh – oh god . . ." And with his face pressed against John's neck he's coming too, long shudders racking his body until he collapses, breathless, heavy on top of John.

John lies beneath him, sated and aching sweetly – and unbidden the image of Rodney poking at Ronon's hair comes to mind. He starts to laugh – he can't help himself, and Rodney lifts his head to stare at him, bemused.

"What?" Rodney asks.

John snorts and shakes his head. "You're a hell of a prize, Meredith McKay," he grins and smacks a kiss to Rodney's forehead. Which earns him the pillow pulled from beneath his head and a sound down-filled beating, but he reckons he deserves it, and Rodney's laughing too.

*****

The next week's too long and too short all at once. The chicks are safely bundled off to Mrs. Brenneman's care, and Ada agrees to take in Burp. There's a vast network of temporary help rounded up so that Laura can leave her other charges and travel as Finn's day-time minder, and John weathers multiple bouts of guilt about monopolizing her time. Rodney spends two whole afternoons berating his graduate assistants and reminding them exactly what will happen if any of the experiments he's leaving in their care fail, and John wraps up what odd-jobs and loose ends he can before he leaves. There's laundry to do and bags to pack, and a trip to Target to fill a backpack with new toys for Finn – a handy distraction for the plane.

Yet amid all the bustle, there are too-long moments of quiet, and John tries hard not to think about the forces tugging him slow but sure beyond the reach of gravel and barn; when he shuts his mind fast against the hum in his blood; when he wills the voices of his old C.O.s quiet. The morning they leave, he stands in the pasture soaking up sight and sound and smell, and as the plane descends into Denver International Airport he closes his eyes, divides his attention between imagining each action taking place in the cockpit, and the faint remembered scent of dark, clean Iowa dirt clinging soft to the soles of his boots.

*****

It's a seventy-mile drive from the airport to Colorado Springs, but John can't regret it – better to have some control, he thinks, a means of escape if he wants it. With the keys to an SUV in his hand all he needs is gas in the tank and he can get away from anything as quick as he likes. They pile their luggage in the trunk, Rodney checks Finn's car seat six or seven times before he consents to get on the road, and Laura distracts everyone by offering $5 to the first person who can spot an exit for Starbucks (a contest they let Finn win by unspoken agreement).

Their hotel's classy, the suite they're shown to sprawling, and the luxury sets an uncomfortable chill at the base of John's spine. He dumps his and Rodney's bag in the room that'll be theirs and jams his hands in his pockets as he looks at the view. "They're going all out," he observes, as if he's talking about the weather, but Rodney just squeezes his shoulder and goes to check how Laura's settling in.

They trek out to Old Chicago for dinner – good beer for the adults, so many pizza choices for Finn that he almost melts down at the table from the pressure – and they could be any family visiting the region to see the sights, hike the trails, and visit friends. Any family – save for the ripple of tension that passes through John when the people one booth over start talking about the Air Force Academy, and Rodney and Laura talk a mile a minute to fill the silence in John's wake.

John can't say what's eating at him – it's all hunches and quick twists of the gut, the urge to curl one hand into a fist and the necessity that no one touch him, and he's not sure if it's better or worse that Rodney seems to get it, gives him space, lets him be. He can feel Rodney's own excitement like a vibration in his bones, tries to see the world from his perspective – new technology, wormholes, stars. But by the time he tumbles into bed and begins his vigil of staring at the ceiling, he's still mired somewhere earthbound and cold, shamed a little by Rodney's goodwill. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep – listens to Rodney snuffle against his pillow and writes a letter to his grandpa in his head. But when he cracks his eyes to morning, he's wedged tight against Rodney's side, arm wrapped around him, and when he lifts his head, Rodney's smiling warm against the tumble of his hair.

"Hey," Rodney murmurs, mostly still asleep, blinking slowly.

John flushes uncomfortably, unsettled by the way his body took what it needed in the night when his mind wouldn't cave, then he rubs his stubbled cheek against Rodney's shoulder and closes his eyes again.

*****

The first morning at Cheyenne Mountain's a rolling blur – so much so that by the time they're in the elevator heading down to level nineteen of Stargate Command, John's started cataloging how many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder he's exhibiting, then realizes what he's doing and grimaces so hard Rodney blanches and asks if he needs someone to perform the Heimlich.

John laughs weakly, shaking his head. The overhead light reflects from the corner of his security pass – he's already managed to bend the upper-right corner. "Sorry."

Rodney gives him a crooked little smile, then beams as the elevator stops. "Aha!" he crows, clearly beside himself at the prospect of showing John around, barely slowing when the doors open to reveal a tall, blonde woman in SG-1 fatigues.

"McKay," she says, almost smiling, maybe threatening just a little. "I was coming to find you."

"Yes, well," Rodney says cheerfully, "we're here and I know my way around so – " He bounces out of the elevator and claps his hands together, looking right and left.

The woman arches an eyebrow. "You have meetings."

Rodney slouches and suddenly exudes all the bitterly crushed impatience of an average 14 year old. "Oh, c'mon! He's never been here before – surely we have ten minutes to just – "

"No. No, you don't. You're due with General Landry in five." Carter turns to John. "Major Sheppard?"

John nods a little uncomfortably. "You don't have to do that – " he gestures. "Major thing."

Rodney sighs, rallies and flicks his hand. "John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter."

A corner of John's mouth quirks as he shakes her hand. "Rodney's mentioned you."

Carter smiles, amused. "I can imagine."

"You know. How he is."

Carter's smile becomes wry. "Yes, yes I do." She glances at Rodney, then back at John. "So – " She seems to be struggling between the twin poles of politeness and curiosity. "You live with him?"

"Yeah."

"No, really."

John stares back, blankly. "Yeah?"

" _Really_?"

Rodney sighs. "This is all very amusing, but – "

"And you have a kid together?" Carter continues.

John nods. "Finn."

" _Really_?"

Rodney folds his arms in a mutinous fashion. "Right here!"

"Look, I'm sorry, McKay." Carter gestures. "He's just – hot."

Rodney gapes. "You can't say that!"

"But he is!"

"Um –" John clears his throat.

"And what?" Rodney asks, ignoring John completely. "Are you implying that I can't get hot husbands?"

Carter almost chokes. "You're _married_?"

"Well." Rodney tilts his chin. "Practically."

John scratches the back of his neck. "You can't actually – you know – in Iowa and . . . "

Carter looks from one to the other and back again. " _Really_?"

"Yes, really," Rodney says defensively.

"C'mon, McKay. How do I know you didn't hire him?"

Rodney stares her down. "Hire a man with the Ancient gene to _play my boyfriend?_."

John clears his throat.

"Really?" Carter says again, looking at John.

"Really," he nods.

Carter shakes herself and nods as if to get back on track. "Okay." She blinks. "Little – rude there, perhaps. I apologize."

"How about apologizing to _me_?" Rodney says.

Carter steps into the elevator and looks at Rodney again. "I guess you really do have hidden depths, McKay."

Rodney squares his shoulders, smiling smugly as he joins them, and John's forced to smack him up the back of the head. That earns him an elbow to the ribs, and nothing seems quite so unfamiliar anymore.

*****

The meeting with General Landry's perfunctory. John slides through the experience with a distant smile, offering at least the appearance of interest while all the right things are said. Landry studies him at the end of the conversation, sends them off to see the 'gate with a knowing air, and John's struck by the uncomfortable idea that perhaps he hasn't been hiding as much as he thought.

Down one level – stairs, instead of elevators – and there's the 'gate, larger than John had imagined, strangely beautiful for the complex function it hides. John itches to touch it; eyes the control room, the bunker, the guards; gathers intel by habit and listens more attentively than he has all day. "What does it – "

A klaxon blares and there's a startling whoosh of sound, the center of the gate spilling blue, retracting, shimmering like water ruffled by a breeze.

"Unscheduled off-world activation," says the 'gate tech. "Major O'Mara's IDC."

With a sound that makes John think suddenly of swamp water and childhood, the drag of mud at his ankles and lizards that patiently ate a whole array of bugs, a team arrives, striding through the gate, dirty but unharmed. John blinks, frowning, turning over each part of what he's seeing in his mind – wormhole, personnel, a gate to a another world – and when he takes a step back he's hoping five more inches of space might reduce it all to a manageable whole.

Rodney grins at him. "Great, huh?"

John laughs, a little stunned, but he agrees somewhere primal, somewhere unexplored, and nods, smiles, watches the wormhole close.

*****

It's mid-morning when he's introduced to the scientists, and maybe the 'gate's scrambled his brain, but it feels as though someone's carved up Rodney's character, and endowed each person in the room with a different McKay trait. John's comfortable with Rodney's many foibles – it's no big thing to confront Rodney's temper or sarcasm or appalling way with names in a new bipedal form – but it's still damn odd to know the future of the world rests with people whose hands are as unsteady from over-caffeination as Rodney's. There are introductions – Doctor Lee is gloriously, even tragically enthusiastic about everyone and everything – and meandering explanations of Ancient tech that Rodney interrupts every two or three words. But it's not until someone wheels a trolley into the room bearing a strange green, plastic anemone that things finally, messily start to get fun.

"Could you – " Doctor Lee gestures. Apparently the words 'touch it' are more than he can bear.

John rolls his eyes, gently amused, and reaches out a hand. The console immediately lights up gray and white, and the scientists lean away as one, oohing and ahhing as though it's the Fourth of July.

"Yes, yes, it's very pretty," Rodney says with disdain, "but did anyone hook it up to any diagnostic tools in order to harvest, oh, say, meaningful information from this experience? Or were you all just planning to watch the Ancient porn?"

There's a pause and then a desperate scramble for wires and laptops and something that looks like a bungee cord. John grins at Rodney. "This is cool," he says.

Rodney hmmms. "Torturing scientists. Can't imagine where you got a taste for that."

John licks his lips, and Rodney shifts uncomfortably, then hurriedly mutters something about a report he has to print and leaves the room.

Testing Ancient tech stays interesting for at least a few hours. John knows enough math to follow some of what's being discussed and gets a certain perverse pleasure out of trying to figure things out with the drift of mind before the scientists figure it out with their tools. He likes the hum of the tech in his hands – the distant sense of satisfaction that warms him inside, calling his senses into play in ways he doesn't fully understand. Every connection smells a little different; every device carries a flash of color, a low note of music; and just once the room fades and he sees the ocean, someplace he's never been, calling him back.

Rodney returns just after two and berates everyone in a fifty-foot radius for the errors they've been making in matter transportation theory, the fact that the vending machine is out of cashews, the emotional pain they've inflicted upon him as he's reviewed their latest staffing reports, and the idiocy of no one reminding him about lunch.

John blinks and realizes he's starving. "Food?" he says hopefully.

"Yes, yes, god, did they siphon off your vocabulary as well as starve you to death?" Rodney asks, and tugs him up from his stool to frog-march him to the mess.

*****

It's dark by the time they leave that evening, and as soon as they reach their hotel room, John flops on the couch, groaning with exhaustion, leaving Rodney to check in with Laura and give her some time to herself. There's a high-pitched squeal from some other room, then the thunder of Finn's footsteps as he runs through the suite. He throws himself at John, climbing onto the couch and crawling up his body until he can sit on his stomach, grinning cheerily and bouncing Elephant off his ribs. "Hi Baffa!'

John smiles tiredly. "Hey 'jumper. Missed you today."

"I didn't miss you!"

John laughs. "Had a good time with Laura, I take it?"

"We went on a train to the top of a mountain! An' Laura gived me a camera of my own and I tooks pictures!"

"Was it cold up there?"

Finn nodded. "I had to wear my coat."

"Good boy." John ruffles his hair. "Anything else?"

"I drewed some pictures? I drewed the farm and Burp cause they're far away."

John's throat suddenly gets tight and he pulls Finn down into a hug. Finn squirms and laughs, delighted by the attention.

Rodney appears in John's line of sight. "Room service?"

John offers a half-smile. "Room service," he agrees. "You want fries, 'jumper?"

Finn sits up, mouth a perfect 'O.' "Canna have fries Daddy?" he asks, looking at Rodney, not convinced it can be true.

"Yep," Rodney says, grinning. "And ice cream. Whatever you want."

Finn scrambles off John's chest and runs to slam into Rodney's knees. "Let's go get it!"

"We just have to call," Rodney says, taking Finn's proffered hand and going to find the room service menu.

"Was he okay?" John asks Laura as she wanders into the living area, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

She grins. "If I said he was an angel, would you believe me?"

John snorts. "Not for a second."

"So he was less than an angel," she grins. "Especially over the question of hotdogs or nuggets for lunch. But we had a good time. It's an easy job, keeping him happy when he's doing stuff he's never done before."

"You are a lifesaver," John says, pulling himself up off the couch. "And I was looking and – " He digs a brochure out of his back pocket, something he picked up in the lobby as they came home. "Here. You should do this. I already told them to expect you. Charge it to us."

Laura arches an eyebrow at the list of spa services the hotel offers. "You're coming on to me."

John laughs. "Right."

Laura points a finger. "I know what this is."

John waits, eyebrow raised.

"You want me to be your rent-a-womb. This is all a plan to get me knocked up."

"You've found me out," John says, deadpan.

"No other reason for a man to offer spa services," she says firmly, but she's trying not to laugh.

"Other than you're a damn good friend," John says, knocking her elbow.

"Wanna pull my pigtails?"

"Maybe later."

"Okay."

When they finally go to bed that night, John reaches out first, pulling at Rodney's shirt, his belt, hands unsteady, wanting, _wanting_. Rodney slows him, steps inside the circle of his arms and kisses him pliant, breathing affection into the shadow behind his jaw, scratching his nails up and through John's scalp. John whines softly, his fingers moving quick over Rodney's buttons and fly, and the separation while they tug off their pants and shoes, kick aside their underwear grates, makes his heart skip, his stomach twist.

"Need," he manages when they tumble onto the bed, thrown-back covers uneven beneath his spine, Rodney broad and solid above him.

"I know, I know," Rodney murmurs against his collarbone, fingers dancing over the inside of his wrist, and he pins John against the mattress, scalding his shoulder with the touch of his tongue.

"Please. Please," John whispers, and he's never been this close to falling apart before, doesn't understand the wash of emotion that's twisting fire-bright inside his chest, but if he doesn't come hard it'll find some other way out of him and that terrifies him, makes him want to scratch and claw. He bites at Rodney's throat, plants his feet firm against the bed and grinds up, begging, and Rodney hushes him, fumbles for the bottle they've already stowed in the bedside drawer, tries to bank the embers of John's confusion with cool fingers and a soft, slick touch.

When Rodney finally pushes inside, John catches his breath before he can incriminate himself, grinds his teeth and closes his eyes, legs wound 'round Rodney's body, hands skimming restless to read each drag and slide of muscle in Rodney's back. He holds on tight, grunting inelegantly, whispering encouragement – filthy pleas – into Rodney's ear. Rodney's face creases and his eyes close as he moves, sliding deep, and this is what John needs, a grounding touch, something to hold him steady while the world spins new, and when he watches Rodney come, his heart flares white.

The chase of Rodney's breath across his shoulder makes him shiver as he coaxes him down, as he brushes his fingers through his hair, over his spine. When Rodney looks up he's ruined – and it's beautiful, _he's_ beautiful, such strange beauty wrapped in thinning hair and a day's worth of stubble, blue eyes grey in the splinters of the night, and when Rodney reaches to close a hand around John's cock, John arches, trembles, strains into every one of Rodney's whispered words and comes with an utterly defenseless cry.

He's gathered in, and without the words to transform feeling to understanding, he holds on and sleeps hard and fast through the night.

*****

Tuesday and Wednesday are more of the same – wide-eyed scientists, a host of objects that resemble nothing on Earth, a gene-laden touch and a scramble to understand. John begins to relax a little – no one seems to be waiting for him to screw up, and he's scrutinized the actions and demeanor of every member of the military with whom he's come into contact; none, save Landry, seem to be harboring reservations about him; perhaps no one knows about the black mark on his file. Then there's the chance that maybe, just maybe (and this is thought enough to send the world into tailspin) circumstance makes things different here. In a place where aliens are common, where Teal'c paces the halls, where 'gate travel's no more unusual than driving to McDonalds, where aliens are unpredictable and the fabric of time regularly comes undone, maybe doing something by instinct is usual, necessary, a skill that keeps you alive.

Or, he muses, only a handful of people know what he did.

It shouldn't bother him – it's not like he'd change anything if he had it to do over. He left the military without any real regrets, save the risk of not coaxing another plane to flight and have to lean on his friends in memory instead of life, but it's still there, Afghanistan, a irritant rubbing against his skin like a new pair of boots working blisters at his heel, and he wants – he realizes with sudden regret, his fingers curled around an object the size of a grape – absolution, someone to say 'we'd have done the same.' The thought makes his stomach turn and he squeezes the tech in his hand so hard it bursts, purple ooze running between his fingers. "Sorry," he manages.

Dr. Lee lifts a shoulder. "We think it was an air freshener."

John blinks. "Huh."

"So no harm done."

"Right. I'm – lunch?"

Dr. Lee waves him away.

Rodney corrals him as he's polishing off a mountain of mashed potatoes, nestled up against meatloaf and a pile of green beans. "You're being wasted," he says, tone clipped and businesslike.

"I am?" John asks, eyeing him speculatively.

"Air fresheners?"

"They didn't _know_ it was an air freshener when they gave it to me."

Rodney sniffs. "I'm monopolizing you this afternoon."

John offers a very small leer.

Rodney rolls his eyes and steals his jello cup. "Are you eating this? I'll just – anyway, I have some pieces I've been working on, cross-referencing to the Ancient database, and I think I've found some interesting stuff. Certainly better than air fresheners. Put your gene to use before they have you groping scented candles and Ancient potpourri." He stuffs an enormous spoonful of jello in his mouth.

John quirks an eyebrow, amused. "There are other people with the gene, right?'

"Yes, yes, but none have quite your – " Rodney waves his spoon. "Natural ability. There must've been a great deal more Ancient inbreeding in your family line than in most."

John snorts. "Nice, McKay."

"What?" Rodney looks genuinely confused. "It's not like I'm saying _you_ have a predilection for marrying your own cousins." He thinks for a second. "Do you _have_ cousins?"

"McKay!"

"Yes, yes, well, anyway, you're unusually gifted, biologically speaking, and – "

"Okay, okay." John licks the last bite of mashed potatoes from his fork. "So what's our toy?"

Rodney grins a little dangerously. "I think I found a personal shield."

*****

The shield's small and green and looks a lot like the shell of a turtle. John sticks it to his chest and blinks when it hums to life.

"So what does it feel like?" Rodney asks.

John looks down at his chest. "Uh – you know. The usual."

Rodney sighs. "No, I don't know, could you – " he gestures.

"Oh. Well – it's, uh – there's a hum?"

"That you can hear?" Rodney asks, tapping at his laptop.

"No, I can feel it. In my bones."

Rodney frowns. "Sounds unpleasant."

"No, actually it's – it's sort of satisfying."

Rodney blinks.

"Not _that_ kind of satisfying, geez McKay . . . "

"Well how do I know? What if all Ancient tech is some kind of sex toy to you?"

John stares. "Because an entire civilization run on the basis of people getting off would be pretty efficient, you're right."

Rodney sighs. "Okay, fine, so – humming. Any discomfort?"

"No. S'cool."

"Cool?"

"Cool."

Rodney hmmphs. "Very scientific."

"Well, you asked."

"I don't believe I actually asked for its 'cool' quotient."

"Now you have it."

"I've made a note." Rodney taps a command into the laptop. "So, it seems to be working on the principle of – "

"Maybe it's – say – binding to my skin somehow."

"Binding."

"Yeah."

"Okay." Rodney folds his arms. "Are you the genius scientist here?"

"No."

"Exactly. So shut up while I work."

John raises an eyebrow. "You're pretty obnoxious when you're in your geek space, you know."

"Yes, well, did you think all the people who complained to the Dean were _joking_?"

"Kinda."

"Now you know better. Think the thing off."

John does so and the device falls into his waiting palm.

"Huh." Rodney types. "Okay put it back on."

John rolls his eyes and slaps the device on his chest again.

"Now, try and pick up the coffee cup."

John fixes a slightly bewildered expression on his face.

"Hello?" Rodney looks up at him. "Coffee cup?"

John cocks his head and taps his ear.

Rodney frowns. "What?"

John shakes his head.

"What? You can't hear me?"

John works his jaw as if he might be able to get his ears to pop.

"You can't hear me?" Rodney says a little frantically. "Why – why would it do that, why? What use is a shield that – " He types some more. "Okay, now can you hear me?"

John stares at him and gestures again.

"Oh Jesus, I've made you deaf," Rodney mutters.

John snorts.

Rodney's eyes narrow. "You asshole."

John grins. "You were kinda asking for it."

"I ought to – "

John grins even wider. "Wanna punch me? Bet you can't."

Rodney grimaces and rounds the table. "You want me to punch you?"

John nods enthusiastically. "C'mon. Kick me in the shins. Something."

"Bastard." Rodney kicks at him – but stubs his toe on thin air that briefly glimmers green. He yelps. "Nice! I've broken my toe and it's all your fault, you with your – "

John sticks his hands in his pockets and keeps grinning. "Throw the coffee at me." Rodney does so without a second thought, and John smiles, completely dry as the coffee splatters all over the floor. " _Cool_."

Rodney's eyeing him speculatively now. "I wonder how much it can withstand." He throws a pencil and it falls off harmlessly. "Huh."

John grins wickedly. "Wanna push me down some stairs?"

"No!"

"C'mon, it'll be fun!"

"Yes, yes, broken limbs are a riot."

"I won't break any limbs. Look – " John glances around the workroom. "Throw a book at me."

Rodney trudges over to the table in the corner and hurls a book in John's direction. It bounces away harmlessly. "Very handy should enraged librarians come after us, I suppose."

"C'mon! Just push me down the stairs!"

"You realize our relationship is completely fucked up that those words are even coming out of your mouth?"

John smiles even wider. "I know."

Rodney sighs. "Stairs," he gestures. "And if you survive that, I'm shooting you."

John bounces on the balls of his feet. "Awesome."

*****

John survives the stairs, and being shot at, and having one of the Marines try some sort of martial arts move on him, and by the time he and Rodney leave the mountain that night they're completely slap-happy. Rodney starts singing 'Can't Touch This' on the ride home, biting his bottom lip and dancing in his seat while John laughs himself hoarse and tries hard not to drive off the road. The whole clan seems to have been touched by madness – they can hear the thumping base of 'Helter Skelter' as they get off the elevator at the hotel, and when they open the door to their suite there's Finn McKay, standing on the arm of the sofa, screaming along with Paul McCartney while Laura dances wildly on the rug.

"DADDIES HOME!" Finn yells as the door closes behind them, and leaps off the sofa to run full tilt into Rodney's legs. "HI DADDY."

Rodney bends down to pick him up. "Hi utterly out-of-his-head son of mine." He blows a raspberry on Finn's neck as Laura turns down the music, looking moderately ashamed.

John grins at her. "Need to blow off a little steam?" he asks.

"Trying to get him tired enough to _nap_ ," she confesses. "We went to the zoo, we went to the mall, I denied him all forms of sugar – he's still going strong. I, on the other hand, want to die."

John snorts. "We'll take him out to dinner," he offers. "Give you some peace and quiet."

"BAFFA!"

John raises his eyebrows. "Talking to Laura right now."

Finn sighs as though extremely put upon and sticks a finger in Rodney's ear.

"You would be my heroes," Laura says fervently. "I want to use that big Jacuzzi, I want to call my husband, I want to watch utterly pointless TV . . . "

"Done and done," Rodney says, Finn on his hip. "We'll go find food, huh?"

"Foods!" Finn says, perking up again. "I want some foods."

John checks his pocket for his wallet and his key card and waves at Laura. "Go settle in," he says cheerfully and ushers Rodney and Finn into the hall.

"Foods, Baffa?"

"Yep," he says, pulling the door closed behind them. "We're gonna go eat until we're so full we can't speak anymore."

Finn lays his head on Rodney's shoulder. "You's silly," he grins.

"Why am I silly?"

"Daddy always talks," Finn says firmly.

John laughs as Rodney exacts revenge with cold fingers under Finn's warm sweatshirt, eliciting shrieks and giggles to the elevator doors, then smoothly shifting into small talk about prime numbers once they're all inside and Finn's pressing the button for '1.' Finn disagrees with all theories involving 1 and 3 and 7, holding firm that the best number is four because it's " _happy_ , Daddy, it likes being four," causing Rodney a small spluttering fit and John to smile with loving them both this much.

*****

Thursday morning, Rodney directs the elevator straight to level twenty-eight.

"What're we doing?" John asks.

"We're . . ." Rodney shifts his feet a little. "Taking something of a – road trip."

"Road trip?" John frowns. "Road trip to wh – " And suddenly it hits him, forces all the air from his lungs and it's a minute or so before he can manage, "are you _insane_?"

Rodney blows out a breath. "Possibly."

"How long have you known?"

"Since Monday."

"And you just forgot to mention it?"

Rodney eyes him patiently. "No, I knew you were going to do this and so I figured I'd give you as little time to freak out as possible."

John starts pacing, angry words bubbling up in his throat then dying away. "I'm wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt!"

Rodney looks at him with pity. "No, really, that's the best excuse you could come up with? You're not _dressed_ properly?"

John grimaces and points at him with one finger. "There are other reasons."

"So, tell me."

The elevator stops before John can get going, and the doors open to reveal Sam Carter, waiting with a cautious smile. "So – "

"You knew too?" John says.

"Yes." She nods, lacing her fingers together. "But McKay thought that – "

John growls low in his throat, throwing Rodney a look. "I can't believe you."

"Look, Major Sheppard – " Carter begins.

"Lay off the Major," John grits out.

"Habit. Shoot me." She levels him an uncompromising gaze. "As much as the work you've done here this week has been of tremendous help to us, the area where we most need your particular skill is off-world."

John pushes his anger down with a force of will. "I have a _son_."

"Of course you do. And we're not talking about asking you to take up permanent residence in Atlantis – "

"Atlantis?" John looks over at Rodney.

"Where else would we need your magic touch?" he asks.

"That's in a whole other fucking _galaxy_."

"And a wormhole trip away. Don't pretend to be stupid," Rodney says impatiently. "You know how it works. It's no more taxing than walking across the room."

John stares at his boots for second, trying to master all the jumbled words that are crowding his tongue. "We can't just – _Finn's_ here."

"We're talking about one day! We'll be back at the hotel by the same time as always!"

"And what if something happens?"

"Nothing's going to happen!"

"Right, because the Pegasus Galaxy's not crawling with Wraith and – oh yeah, Replicators, and – "

"There are Replicators in this galaxy," Sam points out. "And Goa'uld, and Ori. If you're worried about potentially dangerous contact with alien species . . ."

"It's no more dangerous than driving on the interstate," Rodney puts in.

John looks at him as though he's utterly insane. "Right. Because there are a whole bunch of soul-sucking vampires hanging out on I-80."

Rodney winces. "Hey, you've been to the Walcott truck stop. I wouldn't be surprised if – "

" _Rodney_."

Rodney sighs. "Look, you don't have to go if you don't want to. But I would never, ever do something to endanger you or Finn. If I wasn't completely sure we could do this and come back, I wouldn't ask." He steps closer. "You know that."

John closes his eyes and swallows hard against the bitterness and – okay, he can admit it, fear – that's tight in his throat. "A day."

"A day." Rodney watches him. "And you could – they're expecting you might be able – " He glances at Carter.

"They have gateships," Carter finishes. "Space-ready, submersible craft equipped for intra-galactic gate travel. And we're pretty sure they're something you'd be able to fly."

John nods and chews his lip. "You're a shit," he says, pointing at Rodney.

Rodney looks unabashed. "And that's news how?"

John glowers. "Can we go as we are?"

Carter nods. "They're ready for you as soon as you're ready to go."

John stalks in the direction of the 'gate room, Rodney jogging to catch up. "I can't believe you didn't tell me," John growls.

"Look, you'll like it, I promise," Rodney says. "It's really quite beautiful and – "

They're standing at the base of the ramp by now, the chevrons on the 'gate beginning to engage. "You've _been_ there?"

Rodney looks uncomfortable. "Well. Yes."

"All those trips to Colorado – you weren't going out of state, you were going _off-world_?"

"Well I couldn't tell you!" Rodney says, gesturing haphazardly as the wormhole engages. "And I didn't actually lie. I mean, within the parameters of what I was _allowed_ to say, I said as much as I could."

John starts walking up the ramp. "You've been hanging out in Atlantis."

"Working. Working in Atlantis," Rodney clarifies. "Zelenka's in charge over there – "

John squints. "Your chess buddy?"

"Yes. Well – yes. And he – "

John pauses, the wormhole a foot away. "Was chess a euphemism, too?"

"For _what?_ " Rodney asks. "Calibrating the main power supply to the east pier? Or, let's see, perhaps repairing the internal sensors on the gateships? Or maybe, oh yes, spending half a day under the console that powers the shield?"

"I can't believe that you'd – "

"Oh for _crying out loud_ ," Rodney yells, and pushes him through the gate.

Which is how John Sheppard arrives in Atlantis, sprawled on his ass.

Immediately, everything around him gets brighter. Successive lights engage over his head, mechanisms sparking to life with the satisfied snick of locks being turned. John blinks, confused, disoriented by the pull in his gut and the knowledge that he's stepped into a completely new realm. Rodney steps through the gate and offers him a hand, pulling him to his feet. John staggers, feeling almost drunk with the heady sensation in his blood. "Whoa," he manages, shuffling around to eye the welcoming committee that's waiting.

Rodney moves to stand at his side. "She's coming on to you isn't she?" he murmurs.

John frowns, his thinking sluggish. "Who?"

" _Atlantis_. The cheap whore."

John chokes, trying not to laugh, trying to remember he's angry, but there's an element of flirtation in the way the city's trying to catch his attention, so all he can do is scratch the back of his neck and try not to flush too hard.

"Major Sheppard." A woman's voice, and John looks up. He mechanically shakes the hand that's proffered. "Dr. Elizabeth Weir. Welcome to Atlantis."

"Uh – "

"I think it's entirely possible Atlantis is having sex with the structures of his DNA right now," Rodney puts in. "We may not get a coherent answer out of him for a while."

John's head snaps around. " _Hey_."

"Oh look," Rodney says mildly. "The genetically blessed speaks."

John smacks him up the back of the head. "You're still in the shit. Don't _even_ . . . " Dr. Weir clears her throat, and John blanches, realizing the show they're putting on. "Uh. Sorry." He shuffles his feet.

"It's quite all right. I'm . . . acquainted with Dr. McKay," Dr. Weir says, kindly. "And I understand this morning's trip was something of a surprise."

"You could say that," John answers, wry. The rush beneath his skin isn't quite so overwhelming anymore and he cranes his neck looking up at the stained glass windows, the soaring architecture, the balcony from which a host of technicians are staring, goggle-eyed. "What're they looking at?" he whispers to Rodney.

"You," Rodney says. "You caused half a dozen new lights to come on and three non-working consoles to spring to life."

"I did?"

Rodney nods.

"Huh." John feels a little smug. "I did."

Dr. Weir smiles. "Let me introduce my colleagues – Lieutenant Colonel Lorne, military commander of Atlantis . . . " John nods, privately wondering if they got the guy straight from central casting. He looks like he might smell of apple pie. ". . . Dr. Carson Beckett, our medical chief . . ." Carson waves. " . . . Dr. Radek Zelenka, chief of science . . . " At John's elbow, Rodney snorts derisively. " . . . and Teyla Emmagen, an Athosian from here in the Pegasus Galaxy who's joined our expedition as a military and diplomatic aide." Teyla smiles and inclines her head.

"Pleased to meet you." John sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "So – you have stuff you want me to do?"

Dr. Weir arches an eyebrow. "Several critical systems we'd like you to try and initiate; some medical tests that would allow Dr. Beckett to continue his research into genetic protections against the Wraith; and Colonel Lorne thought – "

"Though you might want to try out a gateship," Lorne says. "I read your file."

John nods, eyeing him warily.

"On paper you're one of the best pilots I've ever seen," Lorne says evenly, gaze never wavering. "I'd like to see what you can do first-hand."

One corner of John's mouth curves into a smile. "Happy to give it a shot," he says, and Rodney pokes him in the arm with fifth-grade joy.

*****

The first day at SGC might have been overwhelming, but it was building blocks and finger paints compared to this sort of day. The medical tests come first – Beckett draws blood with such cheer John can't help but be unsettled, and he's not entirely sure he trusts the Ancient scanners, even if everyone assures him they're safe. Still, he acquiesces to every test they want to run, sees a rendering of the gene that's brought him to this point, and he accidentally touches a device that heals the scar he's had on the back of his hand since he fell off his bike as a kid. He leaves the infirmary with a spring in his step, and he's pretty sure Rodney swiped a handful of epi-pens while Beckett's back was turned.

As they head toward a transporter and the city's heart, John can't help but run his hands along the walls. Atlantis warms beneath his fingertips, seems to reach back, and although it's madness he can't help but think she's been lonely. As he passes down corridors, lights switch on, doors slide open, and pretty soon Lorne has a team of scientists and military personnel following in their wake to investigate everything Atlantis is unlocking now that John's on board. John's so entranced by the little things – the glow of the hallway floors beneath his feet; the pleased hum of the transporter when they step inside – that he's unprepared for the chair; to sit down and feel it swamp him with power, energy, affection; to realize the scope of what's at his command.

"Think of where we are in the universe," Rodney suggests, and immediately a canopy of light stretches above their heads. "Wow," Rodney breathes. "Oh, wow. John."

John turns his head and smiles and reckons he's probably going to get lucky for the rest of his life.

*****

They head to the gateships after lunch – Rodney, John, Lorne, and the same two marines who've trailed them everywhere, saying little and flicking their gaze left and right as if Wraith might pop out of the wall at any moment. "You can only fly the 'ships if you have the gene," Lorne says. "And they're – " He hitches a shoulder. "Obstinate. Take a while to break in."

The first ship in the hangar has its rear hatch down, and the moment John sets foot on the ramp the lights come on. " _Cool_ ," he murmurs, looking at the benches, the supplies stowed near the ceiling. He wanders into the cockpit and slides into a seat. "How do I – " But before he can finish his question, a display flickers to life on the windshield and he grins, seeing his answer. "Okay, very, _very_ cool."

"I'm starting to feel slighted," Lorne says wryly, sliding into the co-pilot's chair.

"Sorry 'bout that, sir," John says, the tone of his voice demonstrating he's not sorry at all. "Closing rear hatch."

"Hey, hey, I'm not – aren't there seatbelts on this thing?" Rodney asks.

"You'll be fine, Doc," Lorne placates. "Atlantis, this is gateship one, preparing for take off."

"You're cleared to go, Colonel," Dr. Weir replies. "Have fun out there. Check in, one hour."

"Copy that. One hour." Lorne turns to John. "Major – she's all yours."

Rodney splutters. "Aren't you going to – I mean – shouldn't he have some instruction in – oh god are we moving? We're moving aren't we – _how did the Ancients not put seatbelts in a vehicle designed to fly through space_?"

"Calm down, Rodney," John drawls. "I'm not gonna crash."

"Easy for you to say, you're – you're – you're, oh . . . " They clear the launch tower and the whole of Atlantis lies spread out beneath them. "Oh, that's pretty."

John hovers for a moment. "Wow."

"It's something," Lorne agrees quietly, before glancing at John. "Major – whenever you're ready."

It's all John needs – he's been forcing himself to hold back, to fly smooth and cautious, but he can feel the power of the gateship ready to surge beneath his hands and knows the arc he wants to cut through the sky. He lets his concentration slide into surrender and the ship responds, rushes swift through clouds washed soft by an ocean's whisper, climbs impossibly high on the force of a breath.

He's always loved flight, but this – this is soaring with each tiny stretch of his mind, hands moving where the ship tells him to go, tracking sensor readings and adjusting for wind shear with nothing but a thought. The ship's an extension of himself – save for the stillness in the cabin, the lack of wind on his face, this is his childish dream of sprouting wings made real, and there's nothing and no one to tether him, limit him, only power and freedom and Rodney at his back.

When they land, when they dock, he sits stock still and can't find words.

"Are you glad we came?" Rodney asks.

John ducks his head and smiles before he turns. "I'm glad you were dumb enough not to know the sound of a damaged tire before it blew," he says.

*****

"We have a series of propositions," Landry says the next morning. "Our science and military teams have consulted, and I've spoken with Dr. Weir."

John nods and sips his coffee. It's good – really good, which makes him suspicious. "Yes, sir."

"We'd like you to come on board."

"In what capacity?"

"Civilian contractor. Up to one week a month."

"Here?"

"Two days on Atlantis at least."

John swirls the coffee in his cup. "So you're gonna pay me to touch things?"

Landry almost smiles, but there's no amusement behind it. "You're far more adept at handling the gateships than any of our personnel stationed in Pegasus. Colonel Lorne feels confident the ships could be adjusted and a training program put in place. You'd help calibrate the ships to respond to those whose Ancient gene is not so strong as yours and instruct civilian and military pilots in better flight practice."

John nods. "Where will I fit in the chain of command?"

"You'll answer directly to Dr. Weir. Although in matters of security I would expect you to defer to Colonel Lorne, just as I'd expect you to defer scientific decisions to Dr. Zelenka."

John throws Landry an impatient look. "I'm not interested in usurping anyone."

"Really." Landry quirks an eyebrow. "So you've changed." He taps a finger on a thick file that John realizes must be his military record.

John slides an affable look onto his face, refuses to be baited. "I'd insist that myself and Dr. McKay were never off-world at the same time."

"That's reasonable, considering your family . . . situation."

John wets his lips and weighs the satisfaction of punching Landry in the face with the inevitable cost of not flying gateships and being separated from his son by incarceration. "As far as I can manage it," he says, low, "my son is not going to be left without his parents."

Landry inclines his head. "Agreed." He pulls an envelope out from beneath John's record. "Details of our proposed compensation. A contract. A copy of the confidentiality agreement you've already signed."

John takes the envelope. "I won't decide today."

"I expected as much."

"In fact I won't decide before I'm home."

Landry smiles mirthlessly. "I expected that too."

"Can I go now?"

Landry stands. "You know how to contact us." He steps away from the conference table, moves toward his office. "You should know, Major Sheppard, that Dr. Weir's influence over the IOA went a long way toward there being an offer at all."

John stands too. "That a warning, sir?"

"Perhaps." He studies John for a long, quiet moment. "Don't let me keep you, Major."

John quells the split-second urge to call him a jackass to his face and simply nods.

*****

They've been exhausted since Monday, Tuesday at best, but it's not until they're all squeezed into seats on a plane headed east that it catches up with them and everyone crashes hard. Laura falls asleep with her head on Rodney's shoulder, drooling on his jacket, and Finn crawls into John's lap as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off, sleeping until their descent means John's forced to wake him. Finn's deeply unhappy at the prospect of moving, sniffles pitifully as they sink through the cloud cover that's blocking Iowa from view, and only quiets once he sees green fields and asks in a hopeful voice, "Issit home, Baffa? Is we back?"

"Yeah, it's home," John says low, hand at the back of Finn's head, watching the runway rush up to meet them, feeling the thud of the wheels touching tarmac like a welcome, a greeting, a breath he can finally let go.

They drop Laura off first, even though it's out of the way, and Rodney surprises everyone by voluntarily pulling her into a hug. Maggie Brenneman's bringing the chicks over next morning, and Ada promised to have Burp back by six, so they pull back onto the county road and head home, the sun already beginning to sink behind the tree line. John pulls into the lane, and parks the car by the garages, cuts the engine and sits, absorbing the quiet.

"Wow," Rodney says.

"Yeah," John agrees.

"Home."

John smiles. "Yeah." And he opens the door, breathes in the sharp scent of the farm just after rainfall, and closes his eyes to listen to silence so clean it almost burns.

"Okay, 'jumper," Rodney says, opening the rear door of the car. "Let's get you unbuckled."

"Buckles hard," Finn offers.

"Sort of the point," Rodney mumbles. "There."

Which is when there's a delighted bark and the sound of doggie feet pounding across the yard. John opens his eyes just in time to see Burp take a flying leap at Rodney, tackling him to the ground before snorfling his head with affectionate canine joy.

"Burp! Off me!" Rodney yelps as his face is licked and his shirt front covered in muddy footprints. "Someone? Anyone? Help? BURP!"

Finn giggles delightedly and tumbles out of the car to wrap his arms around Burp's neck. "Puppy!" he squeals, and Burp ruffs in agreement before licking Rodney's face again.

The screen door creaks and Ada sticks her head out. "Thought I heard a commotion," she observes. "Your dog's glad to see you, then?"

"You are an evil woman!" Rodney says sternly – or at least he tries, but it's hard not to laugh when you're being licked in the ear by an overly affectionate dog. "Someone help me!"

"Here boy." John whistles, and Burp comes bounding over, snuffling at John's jeans and ruffing happily as John scratches behind his ears. "He destroy much at your place?" he asks Ada, who's watching everything, amused.

"Just a couple of rooms. The usual," she says. "I've dinner in the oven, who's hungry?"

"I take it back," Rodney says feebly, peeling himself off the ground. "I love you. I'd marry you if I were remotely interested in – you know . . . "

"Women?"

"That works." He hobbles toward the door. "Do I smell pot roast?"

"Depends," Ada grins. "Did you bring me a present?"

And John laughs as Burp licks his face and the absurdity of his life wraps around him tight.

*****

By eleven, the world's pitch black, chilly when John pushes open the screen door and steps out on the porch. There's a beer in his hand to occupy his fingers, and the hood of his sweatshirt's warm at his neck. He drops into one of the chairs, pulls from his beer, and watches the moon battle clouds to claim the night.

Rodney follows not long after. "He's out at last."

John huffs a quiet breath. "He'll sleep 'til noon. Torture us tomorrow," he groans, slouching in his chair. "Why do kids think sleep's the enemy?"

"Wonder where he learned it from," Rodney says archly, sitting in the other chair. "Considering you're out here at half-past what-the-fuck."

Silence spins out between them, friendly and unassuming. John passes Rodney the beer, takes the bottle back after Rodney's taken a pull. "So," John says.

"Hmmm?"

"I can't decide."

"Ah." Rodney stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and slouches low.

John picks at the label on the bottle. "I belong here."

Rodney nods, a soft movement in John's peripheral vision. "You do."

"We have a life here."

"We do."

"And I know you like it."

Rodney turns his head toward him. "Oh?"

"I've seen now. What you turned down." John looks at him. "To stay here."

Rodney holds his gaze for a long time before he looks out toward the barn. "Well." He tilts his chin. "It's not . . ." He wets his lips. " _You_ know."

John blows out a breath. "Some."

Rodney huffs. "We're doing it again."

"Huh?"

"Talking about that talk that we decided not to talk about."

"Lame."

"We really are," Rodney sighs.

John pulls at his beer again. "But then the flying was just – " He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, searching for words that would do it justice, suggest that that was belonging too.

"Ferris wheels?" Rodney offers.

John hitches a short, surprised laugh. "Yeah," he breathes. "Exactly." He turns to look at Rodney again. "But it wouldn't be without – "

Rodney sits forward too, leaning so that their knees almost touch. "This." He jerks his chin toward the barn, the creek, the pasture.

John closes his eyes and leans until his nose brushes gently over Rodney's cheek. "I can't decide," he whispers.

"No need," Rodney replies. "Not tonight." He reaches out, takes the beer from John's hand and takes another pull. "I opened the windows in the bedroom, pulled out another quilt. I thought it'd be nice to – " He tilts his chin. "Far be it from me to suggest that Colorado Springs has a certain – " he waves a hand " – aroma. But – "

John smiles, blinking slow. "Be nice to sleep and smell rain," he says softly.

"Exactly." Rodney pulls at the beer again, then reaches for John's hand. "Come to bed."

John takes the beer back and drinks the rest down. "Yeah," he says, leaving the empty bottle between their chairs, Rodney's fingers sliding warm between his own and tugging him up, into the house, up creaking stairs, over foot-worn floorboards, pausing by the window where they silently undress. And with the window cracked to let in spring, to welcome wind and an owl's low hoot, they climb into bed, slide beneath blankets stacked high against the threat of chilled limbs, their fingers linking again as they fall asleep, waiting for certainties that can only rise with the sun.

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/sheafrotherdon/pic/0001h21c/)


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